


Carnal Affections

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Demon Dean Winchester, Lust, M/M, Multi, POV Crowley, Rape/Non-con Elements, Season/Series 10, Sexual Content, Unrequited Love, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s something delightful in the way Dean swings his hips, taunts mortified passer-by, drinks down a whole top shelf, and comes back in the morning with dried blood splattered all the way up to his arms. Crowley is captivated—fascinated—and he hungers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnal Affections

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: there are some non-con elements among Dean, Crowley, and other characters, since Crowley is a manipulative little shit, and Dean is not himself. Even though the writers say that this Demon Dean is the *real* Dean, Dean was tricked into this without much knowledge of the consequences, and this was something Dean had explicitly feared of becoming. Dean, in reality, craves affection and true fulfillment, not an abundance of alcohol, sex, and blood. Please proceed with this in mind.

Crowley is a demon, and he never asks. He takes.

There’s a great sense of power in corruption, in taking purity and goodness in his blood-stained hands and twisting it, dirtying it, until it’s beyond comprehension. Crowley doesn’t normally do the dirty work—he leaves that to the lower-end employees and reaps the benefits afterward—but when he does, there’s that distinct sense of self-satisfaction. Whatever they may say, he is their rightful King of Hell, and he hasn’t lost his touch. He once corrupted an Angel of the Lord, and now, he’s corrupted a hero.

Crowley keeps his newest recruit on a loose leash, preferring to sit back and watch everything Dean Winchester stands for turn to ashes. He’s careful, of course, to make sure to yank the chain when things get too out of hand, but something inside warms of rust, of fraying, of breaking. The Mark is hungry and humming for something to fill the gnawing emptiness inside, and Dean takes whatever he can get: booze, sex, and demons Crowley sends his way.

Dean as a demon is depraved, curious, saucy, and uncontrollable. There’s something delightful in the way Dean swings his hips, taunts mortified passer-by, drinks down a whole top shelf, and comes back in the morning with dried blood splattered all the way up to his arms. Crowley is captivated—fascinated—and he hungers.

The girls they invited back from the bar tonight are lovely, by all accounts. One girl is long-limbed, all a-tumble with fiery red hair, and Crowley tries not to think of the symbolic implications when she leans in to kiss him. To Dean’s amusement, her name is Abby, and the Winchester keeps repeating it for his benefit. The other girl is dark-haired and slightly tanned—personally not Crowley’s type—but her eyes are bright blue that catch even under the dimmest lights. Dean winds long fingers around the hair at the base of her neck, and kisses her like a gentleman, real slow and easy. She’s the shyer of the pair, but Dean's patient and takes his time coaxing her out of her shell, bit by bit.

They do have fun, all four of them, and there’s that moment when all hands are on deck, lost in the simple but almost overwhelming ecstasy of touch, of hands, of warmth. There’s nothing but fingernail scrapes and wet heat and flushed cheeks and sweat-soaked hair, and it’s _glorious._ He’s never seen Dean Winchester like this—all nerves firing at once, working like a well-oiled machine, free and open without a care in the world. And when Dean dips his head to sink his teeth in to his neck, Crowley’s never felt more alive, all that sin and lust boiling up in the grass-green eyes.

The next bar, a tall, young man buys Dean a drink, and when Dean locks eyes with him, something squirms inside of Crowley, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it when Dean winds an easy arm around his new boy toy’s waist and tugs him right out the door without so much as a by your leave. He doesn’t like that Dean wouldn’t stop talking about it the next three nights: how flexible his spine was, how smooth his Southern accent was against his neck, how Dean could (and in fact, did) wax eloquent on his dark brown hair and faint stubble and baby blue eyes.

There are others, after: a clever and dark-haired pool shark, a sweet and blue-eyed mechanic, a cocky Bible Studies major in a bar’s bathroom, an ex-Marine with an awful scruffy beard, a blond waitress with a drunk husband back home, a mousy-haired bartender with a ridiculous red plaid shirt. All begin to blur over time, and Crowley seethes at the edge of the bed or in a completely separate room entirely, listening to the pleased, disgustingly loud sounds of wet smacks and quiet snickering.

It bothers him so much that before Dean can so much as wink over the table, Crowley grabs him by the arm and pulls him up from the bar stool, wrenching him towards the exit without paying for their drinks. The motel room door opens with a sharp click, and they slam into the bed so quickly that Dean doesn’t even close the door behind him.

When Crowley runs his fingers over flushed flesh, he knows that this is not the first time Dean has lain with a man before all of this, but it’s the first time Dean admits to it, the first time Dean smirks and flips him over like nothing, and paws at his flesh like he’s hungry for it. This sex to Dean was all about domination, all about competition, all about winning. He pushes Crowley’s shoulders down, wrenches his arm behind his back, makes him gasp for mercy.

They fight, they roll around, they scratch, they bite, they sneer, they try to pin each other down. It’s all what sex is supposed to be, yet not supposed to be, all heat but no warmth. This is a partnership—a dictatorship, really—some kind of business arrangement, with benefits. It matters not of promises and praise—it’s filthy and wild and utterly, utterly carnal. There's all what demons are made of: blood and claim and conquer.

It’s over far too soon, and with little payoff for Crowley, as Dean arches his spine and gasps out another name.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice or care as he breathes, hard and heavy, and collapses on the ruined bed with a satisfied little grin.

Crowley lays back, pit sinking in his stomach, as Dean dreams not of orgasmic rapture and blood and heat, but of love and light and warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually really hate Crowley (even though I love Mark Sheppard to pieces), and the undertones of the implied "Dean had sex with Crowley" undertones this season give me the skeevies. (Like, come on, Dean, have better taste.) But, alas, this idea wouldn't leave me alone, so here we are. Feel free to sound off in the comments!


End file.
